The Summer Sword
by NuitNuit
Summary: Why exactly does S. Cauthrien stand by Loghain... Logain/S. Cauthrien
1. It Ends

As if in slow motion, the blood from Loghain's neck wound sprayed within the air, speckling the air in a wake of brownish red. Anora paled at the display, feather soft and elegant features going slack, her father's blood dappling her ivory complexion. She swayed as if she might faint. She did not, however. Even in the face of such tragedy, her resolve seemed steeled. Anora was a Mac Tir. She lowered herself to the ground and took the lifeless hand of the man she had called Father in her pale palm.

_The Teyrn is dead._

From her concealed position within the Landsmeet, Ser Cauthrien lurched, a chainmail covered hand reaching to pat the armor covering her belly. The contents of her stomach revolted causing loss of control, vomit falling on the stone floor at her feet.

_The Teyrn is dead._

Eyelids sealed shut in wishful hope the scene playing out in the main portion of the Landsmeet chamber to be that of a tragic play. At any moment, the Teyrn would stand up and put an end to the farce. The blood would have been the stuff of theatrics. The audience would applaud. The man would bow. The woman waiting in the wings would smile. Brown eyes opened to the cold and harsh. Wishful thinking was denied. It was over and could not be undone.

She had betrayed him.

_The Teyrn is dead._

Each breath became increasingly more difficult. The weight of the moment bore down upon her heavily, crushing her beneath a pile of _too much_ and _what have I done_.

He was…

Trembling hands shook off chainmail gloves, letting them fall upon the ground with a loud clank. What care she had taken to obscure herself from view no longer seemed to matter. Subterfuge? It was the stupid folly of a silly girl. Urgency filled her steps as she pushed away from her corner of somber solitude and sped out the main entryway.

Her gait did not slow until she reached an isolated portion of the Palace gardens. Fingers made quick work of the metal stays at the side of her armor, allowing for a bit more breathing room within the confining mail. Another bout of nauseas brought about a flurry of dry heaves that left her utterly weakened and kneeling upon the grass.

The jeers of the nobles at his protests mixed along with the cheers that echoed triumphantly at his death stung her ears in cruel playback. He had been their hero. He had been their savior. And in the end? He had been their fool. If she did not cry for him, who would?

Tears edged at the corners of her eyes, they flow imminent. She was a soldier. She was _his _soldier. In an attempt to protect, she had destroyed. Guilt and anguish sunk their claws into her skin, rending her flesh with the knowledge of her sins, of the knowledge of his betrayal.

He had been…

He had deserved so much more.

This was not to have been his ending. This was not to have been their ending. She was not the foolish girl any longer that believed in fairy tales. In his pragmatism, she found her own. But he was not supposed to die like that. The Wardens had been asked to have pity.

She had thought…

If she had known…

If she had expected…

Shoulders slumped, weighted down with what could not be changed. "To no regrets," he told her once. If only he was there to help her heed those words. She had failed him. She had failed herself. And for that, she felt nothing but regret.


	2. It Begins

The bared line of a Cauthrien's foot dangled in slow swing from the gnarled tree standing proudly on the border of her father's field. Stalks of wheat stood tall and rich with the promise of a good harvest. It had become habit for her, since a very young age, to scale the tree and hide whenever she wished to play hooky from her daily farm chores.

On days like this – blue skies speckled with pillow top clouds and the warmth of the sun shining down cozy – she would often disappear into the solitude and shelter of her favorite tree and daydream. Her imagination ran wild with dreams of lords, ladies, knights, battles and courtly intrigue during such respites. It was a world far different from that of a young girl living and working on her family's farm.

Like many young girls in the fall of their teenage years, she would dream the cliché – a knight in shining armor would come and take her away, saving her from the daily toil of her agrarian lifestyle. Hunger and money worries would be but things of the past. Only when the call of her father pierced the veil of her fantasy did she pull herself from her wishful thoughts and return to the harsh living of her life.

The voice that drew her attention this day was not that of her father, though. An accent ripe with cocksure origin and ripe with the stench of ale bellowed in command, "Your money or your life."

Arms quickly wrapped tightly about the thick and sturdy limb of the tree providing her with a better vantage point of the ground below.

Her breath sucked in deep and her eyes widened. A dream? Below, dismounted and floored from a majestic black steed, lay a dark haired man swathed in silver armor. Standing in front of him, holding a dagger in a threatening manner stood the grizzled and dirty form of a highway bandit.

Little thought was given to the leap made as Cauthrien launched herself from atop her branchy perch and upon the bandit, knocking him and his knife to the ground with a loud thud. What air she had in her lungs was quickly expelled upon impact. The brunt of the fall fell, however, on the thief beneath her.

Laughter erupted entertained from the armored knight at the display before him. All gangly limbs and well-worn clothing, Cauthrien cut quite the image of the gallant savior.

She pushed herself up, using the unconscious man beneath her for leverage. Dark brows furrowed confused as she looked to the now seated knight on the ground. Hands moved to rest against her hips. "What's so funny," she asked, failing to see the humor in the situation. She had saved him and he laughed? Fancy armor or not, it was rude.

The laughter ebbed, though a smile of mirth persisted upon the man's mouth as he looked up to the girl. The smile suited him, bringing light to his blue eyes. But something about the man bespoke laughter was not something he engaged in often. "Quite the dramatic entrance," he mused dryly, extending a hand to her in a plea of help.

"Yes, well, I couldn't very well let you get robbed." A real knight in real armor extending a hand to her – butterflies fluttered about her stomach. Any apprehension she felt at his lack of appreciation quickly faded away. Fingers wrapped about the cool metal of his extended hand and tugged. Deceptively strong, Cauthrien pulled firm on his hand and helped pry the man and his heavy armor from the ground.

"You certainly are a spry one," he noted, taking another moment to look the girl up and down in a somewhat clinical manner. "Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir." An introduction made.

It was a name she knew quite well. _Hero of the River Dane_. Nerves began to tickle at her insides more earnestly. What does a person say when meeting a hero? What does a person do when meeting a hero? Her posture straightened, the words of her mother echoing in her head.

_Stand up straight girl or you'll never catch yourself a man._

Capture a man she was not attempting to do. But impress him? Most certainly. She stammered her own greeting, "Oh, I'm Cauthrien. Just Cauthrien."

A thoughtful tilt of the head, Loghain's expression grew pensive. It was hard not to feel as if she was being weighed and measured beneath his stare. "Yes, well, we shall have to see what we can do about that."

That day her life changed. She saved a man from a bandit's ill intent and left her family's farm on horseback with a knight in shining armor.


	3. It Grows

The weather had changed, winter's first bite lingering in the air, brittle and crisp. Cauthrien stood upon the practice field, breathing in deep the coolness. Her skin bristled – anxious - beneath the mass of chainmail. The battle had raged for ten minutes. Blows exchanged, sweeps dodged, it seemed an even match of skill. The man that stood opposite her, the challenger, growled and sprung into the low crouch.

Two combatants measuring up the competition; the pair walked slowly in circle. A taunting smile tugged at her mouth. "How do you think it will feel to lose to a woman?" Her words meant to spur the man on.

Her opponent roiled – anger contorting already pudgy and pock marked features. She knew it would be but seconds and he would attack. She recognized the look well. The nervous twitch of his hands as they wrapped tight about the hilt of the sword, the quiver of his lips in snarl, the vehement hatred that shone through his eyes; all betrayed him. He would act compulsively rather than tactically, a rookie mistake.

The sword came at her quickly, aimed at her chest in an attempt to unbalance. Instinct twirled her about her attacker, the edge of an arm scuffed by the incoming joust. She raised her foot and pushed it into the man's backside, driving him forward. His knees rammed into the ground. Desperate hands reached forward to catch him, falling short of their quest as his chest collided with the ground in thud.

She circled about his front, feet inches from his face. One foot rose to press down into the man's back while the tip of the other boot slid effortlessly beneath his chin, lifting it. She intended to have him look at her. "Do you yield," she asked.

Defeated, the man nodded once. He was done.

"Next time you feel like insulting a soldier simply because they are a woman I want you to remember this fight and this loss." She drug her foot back viciously; a rise in the iron of her boot caught upon his skin, leaving a jagged cut in its wake. "That is just in case you chose to forget."

An impassive expression drew tightly across her face as she walked away from her defeated foe, leaving him to heal his wounds and bruised ego. She tossed her great sword to the side into the hands of an awaiting attendant. No instructions were given. They were simply understood. _Clean, polish, sharpen._ It was the same every time.

Her gaze drifted up to the balcony overlooking the practice field. The steely resolve of a warrior at battle sunk and twisted as her stomach bubbled anxious. _Loghain._ Blue met with brown. He stared down at her, the meaning of the gaze indecipherable.

Four years had passed since she rode into Denerim on the back of the Hero of the River Dane's horse. Why he had chosen to rescue her from the pedestrian life of a farmer's daughter, she was never quite sure. She had found him at times, staring at her as if he was seeing an image from the past – some memory he did not care to share.

He offered her a post in his legion, Maric's shield. She would train to be a soldier – his soldier though he did not exactly use those very words. But in her mind, that is what she heard: _his soldier._ The imagination of an awe struck child had run rampant.

She trained, learned, grew from a girl to a woman. Untamed enthusiasm was molded into the disciplined fortitude and skill of a warrior. Her rise through the ranks was quick. Ser Cauthrien she became.

~*~

A dip of the head in nod – recognition – and Loghain disappeared back into the room beyond the balcony. Pride washed brilliant over Cauthrien. He approved. The smile remained on her lips as she made her way back into the Fort. It persisted as she walked down the hallway to her barracks. And it did not fade as she was stopped and told Teyrn Loghain wished to see her.

~*~

A stony mask worn – feelings shoved down and hidden beneath the stoic. Her heart leapt at the sight of him, a schoolgirl crush that had yet to be extinguished. He had been her savior, her rescuer from a life of the mundane. Hope, the promise of greater things, purpose, he had given her all these things. And now, he had given her one more, importance.

_Lieutenant, my second..._

The words floated as if in dream. To stand at his side, his second in command, an honor. She had risen. Control commanded, her nerves silenced with a quick swallow. "I would be honored, your grace."

Icy blue eyes, the sky on a cold winter's day, raked inspective over Cauthrien. It was if he could see through her - everything transparent, no secrets withheld. She knew herself as a warrior, a woman. But under his gaze, she felt every bit the little girl upon the farm seeing her knight in shining armor for the first time. A quiver threatened to travel up her spine, more wanton than fearful.

"Good girl," he murmured before turning away from Cauthrien in a dismissal. While she could not be sure, she had hoped what she saw play upon his lips before he turned away was the slightest of smiles kissed with pride.


	4. It Blossoms

The anniversary of the Battle of the River Dane was always a day of great celebration for the soldiers in Maric's Shield. A day of tournaments always was followed by a raucous night of drink, song and other forms of merriment. It always struck Cauthrien as odd that Loghain rarely attended the festivities. He might make an appearance, poke his head into the great hall so that all might toast to his heroism, but he would always disappear soon after into the privacy of his rooms. Fraternization was not something that he engaged in often, if at all.

A messenger arrived in the midst of the celebration. _Messages from the King_, he had said. Cauthrien was pulled aside, a request made that she bring the letters to Loghain. It was not uncommon for her to act as an intermediary between messengers and Loghain now that she was his second in command. And so she found herself at his door. Her hand curled into a small fist and lightly rapped at the heavy wooden door.

The man that opened the door was foreign to her. Dark hair hung loose and unkempt, braids undone. Loghain's linen shirt gaped open, string enclosures untied. "Cauthrien," he rasped, his voice cracking. Cauthrien could not quite be sure, but it almost appeared as if moisture coated his cheeks, flesh glistening slightly, wet. There was also the faint aroma of brandy lingering in the air.

Her eyes widened slightly at the display. She had never seen Loghain so disheveled before let alone intoxicated. "I..I have messages for you from the King, your Grace." She shifted her stance, a nervous bit of movement. She offered the letters to Loghain.

But he did not reach for the letters and instead stared down at her, blue eyes glazing glacial. It seemed like he might send her away letters still in hand, instead, he swept a hand in gesture and said, "Come in."

Apprehension mixed with a flash of excitement as she treaded into Loghain's rooms. She had been in the sitting room before, but only in the company of other officers and always in an official capacity. Something about this invitation felt odd, as if she was intruding on a very private moment that he had never intended another to witness.

Loghain shut the door after Cauthrien and moved towards his desk and the half consumed glass of brown liquid, most probably the brandy she had smelled earlier, awaiting him. "Place the letters on the desk. Whatever Cailan wants, I'm sure it can wait until later." The glass was snatched up and quickly upended, the remaining contents swallowed down efficiently. "Come, have a drink."

Cauthrien's teeth dug at the inside of her cheek as she walked to his desk and set the letters atop it. "Your Grace, I really should not." Hands clasped together in front of her if for no other reason than to keep her from fidgeting. "I have the tournament tomorrow," she added, feeling the need to explain.

It didn't matter, though. Loghain had already begun to pour her a glass and pushed it toward her with a single nudge of the finger. "It wasn't a request."

Cauthrien took the drink as ordered, wrapping her fingers about the glass. A small draught of brandy filled her mouth in tiny sip.

Loghain's mouth twisted in frown, displeasure painting across his features. "I said drink, not take dainty sips as if you were at some tea party at the palace." Loghain's impatience was running thin. He made no effort to disguise it.

Cauthrien took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. There were battles to fight and times to back down so that you might fight another day. "To the Hero of the River Dane," she toasted. Her white flag raised in the air, the glass upended and the contents swallowed down sloppily, a tiny bit of brandy dripping down her chin. With her free hand, she swiped across the flesh, wiping away the moisture.

Bitterness bit at Loghain's tone as he mockingly raised his glass in salute, "To me." More brandy consumed, more poured into his glass. "More." Whether it is wanted or not Loghain refilled Cauthrien's glass anew.

_He is not..._

She wasn't quite sure what to make of Loghain's actions. Did he not wish to drink alone? Had she done something to upset him? Should she have had someone else deliver the letters instead? A myriad of questions filled her mind as more alcohol flooded her glass. "Have I offended you in some way, your grace?"

A sardonic incline overtook Loghain's mouth momentarily. "No, Cauthrien. No more than anyone else on this special day." He tone snapped, seething bitter upon 'special'. "Drink."

A shiver rattled Cauthrien's spine. What had started as exciting was broaching on the intimidating. She had never seen such an intensity of emotion in Loghain before. Something simmered at the surface, a boiling point neared by not quite reached and caused the space between them to fill heavily and stifling.

Slowly, she raised the glass to her lips and drank, throat near rebelling against the warmth of the liquid as she swallowed. "I have infringed on your hospitality for far too long, your grace." Fear of the unknown, fear of the potent gaze affixed upon her, fear she may say or do the wrong thing all prodded at Cauthrien, screaming for her to leave and stay simultaneously. It was a personal moment; a boundary they had yet to cross. Everything could change if she stayed.

Hands grabbed at Cauthrien's arms, fingers digging into the cotton of her tunic. Surprise and the quick tug of Loghain's fingers brought her against his chest and caused the glass in her hand to tumble to the ground and shatter at her feet. "I disagree."

There was such strength in his grasp. She knew she should have trembled, that she should have tried to run, but yet, her limbs felt unable to make such rebellious movements. Her body sung at his touch, beckoning her to stay. It would have been a lie to say she had not imagined what it would be like to be held so close by the man. Ever since that day he took her from her family's farm, she had wondered, had hoped. But this what not at all what she had imagined.

Foolish, girlish dreams had filled her mind with romantic ideals. Nothing romantic, gentle or tender would come from the way in which he looked down at her, blue eyes roving aggressive over the shock-touched features of her face. She recognized the look – a feral tilt to the eyes filled with need and want.

There had been others in her life, fellow recruits, and other officers. Secret dalliances were had within stables, empty barracks, larders and whatever small spaces of privacy could be found. But the man clutching her fiercely was unlike any of the other men from her past. He was a hero. He was the one person that could leave her completely disarmed with but a glance. He was her weakness and strength. From him she drew her courage and built her hopes and dreams. He was everything she knew she desired – strong, intense, imposing – and he was going to kiss her and it would not be feather soft, endearing or sensitive and she would have it no other way.

His lips found hers in a bestial embrace, firm and adjuring. Everything else melted away – responsibilities, ethical ramifications, pain. His mouth was upon hers and that was all that mattered. A desire fulfilled; a girlish crush of a dream realized. His hungered movements were met in kind with her own – teeth tugging at lips, tongues tasting of each other, hands investigating and probing.

Loghain pushed her against the desk, her bottom colliding with the wooden furnishing. Lips moved against hers in brief speech. Orders given. "Sit." Requests tinged in politesse had no place between the pair. He asked and she would do.

She edged herself atop the desk. Papers, quills and other sundry items nudged aside with a quick sweep of the arm. Legs parted as Loghain leaned into her, pushing her back into the desk. Her tunic lifted to her waist, a rough hand roved commanding beneath the folds of fabric. An arch came to her back as fingers pinched hot along a nipple. He could do whatever he wanted to her and she would not care, she would welcome it.

Loghain's free hand made quick work her leggings and small clothes; both pushed down to dangle along a single leg. There was to be no cuddling, snuggling or further fondling. The weight of Loghain's body pressed into Cauthrien's, hips pushing him forcefully into her and she reveled in it. Her throat burst in moan, sound muffled into the slope of Loghain's shoulder.

Each thrust brought Cauthrien closer to the edge. Words tickled at her lips, begging to be spoken but were bitten down in pleasure rich cry. An arm scooped about her leg, hooking beneath a knee and bringing the leg up further. She surrendered completely letting the tides of pleasure, need and want near-drown her.

His body crashed into hers in the fevered crescendo preceding the calm. Low, guttural, Loghain's own mouth allowed a groan to pass. The tight and taut gave way to the lax and spent. He collapsed atop her– the rise and fall of their chests heavy with breath.

Her fingers entwined in the mass of Loghain's unbraided hair, a tendril twisted about the length of a single digit. It felt much as she imagined it would, soft and luxurious. Her lips lingered along the nape of his neck, savoring the feel of his flesh against her own. Her mouth moved, words formed but not spoken: _I love you Loghain Mac Tir._ A silly admission volunteered in unspoken mouthing brought on by the afterglow but meant all the same. She had loved him from afar, her knight upon the pedestal of unobtainable fantasy.

She felt his mouth brush against the top of her head in what she supposed was a kiss. Warmth gave way to cool as Loghain pushed away from the desk and righted himself. He put himself together; pants tied closed, hair pushed behind his ears. He turned his back to Cauthrien and began to walk towards the hearth. "You're dismissed," he said, formally.

Her chest hollowed. Happiness faded to confusion. A high fell to a low. Smile touched lips grew in frown. _You're dismissed_. Had she expected proclamations of love? No. Did she expect to be so summarily excused? No. The soldier in her rose to attention, however, as she slid of the desk and awkwardly resituated herself.

Hands smoothed her hair back against her head, her ponytail tightened with the simple tug of fingers. Inside emotions raged – confused, happy, sad, angry. Outwardly, though, she had an image to project regardless of what may have just happened. The teacher's finest student she had liked to think herself. His teachings she drew upon, tucking her emotions away, betraying none of her inner turmoil.

As she walked to the door, she turned one last time to look at Loghain. His gaze remained steadfast upon the fire of the hearth. No more words spoken to her; no more glances bestowed. She had been dismissed and that was that. Whatever had happened between them was done. It was a taste of possibility, an amuse-bouche that left her wishing for more.

She closed the door behind her and leaned her weight against it. A deep sigh rose within her chest. Would things change between them now? Would he view her differently? Less of a soldier? Less of a woman? She did not know. She did, however, know she would never be able to look at that desk the same way again.


	5. It Stays

Armed men marched in unison, a display of discipline and military prowess. One, two, three, turn, every move was calculated and well practiced. Cauthrien had beaten the routine into their skulls. Perfection was not desired; it was mandatory. King Cailan had come for a visit, with the purpose of inspecting Loghain Mac Tir's elite forces, Maric's Shield. Nothing but the absolute pinnacle of impeccability would be acceptable. One false move, one inappropriate sneeze or cough and the perpetrator would find themselves punished. All in the unit knew this. When it came to putting on a fine face for Loghain and the King, Cauthrien was nothing if not resolute in her duties.

And indeed, the King was quite impressed with the display. Cauthrien had been forewarned that Cailan liked the flashy and fancy. _A boy playing at being King..._ It was such a show that was put on for his Highness. High gloss armor, overly exaggerated moves, loud sounds, every little trick she could pull out of the book was employed. He was overcome with joy and amazement at the awe-inspiring presentation.

Dinner was special that evening; the King would dine amongst the common soldiers, a show of his confidence in their abilities as well as boost his own vision of self-worth.

Loghain, Cauthrien and two others high ranking officers shared a table with the King, but it was Cauthrien that he doted most of his attentions upon. A charming smile, a witty phrase, all were reserved for the dark haired lieutenant. Others did not go ignored, but always, his gaze returned to the lady at the table with a smile and a wink.

She played her part as she had thought it was written. Smile and laugh at the King's jokes. Be approachable, but not too much so. It was her job to make sure the King left happy and full of praise for the unit. She was nothing if not diligent in this pursuit.

And when the offer came to join the King for conversation and drinks in his chambers at the end of the evening, she delicately declined.

_An early morning, your Majesty, I am afraid. Duty calls._

She had not forgotten the King's Queen or that the Queen was Loghain's daughter. She had not forgotten Loghain. It was an excuse and nothing more, but delivered with just the right level of flirtatiousness as to leave the King with no doubt that had duty not intervened, she would have been his for the evening. The king's cup was to be half full rather than half empty.

Pleasantries were exchanged and everyone parted for the evening. And when she went back to her room, Cauthrien expected to receive her usual summons. Trips to Loghain's rooms had become more frequent. Day to day operations of the unit, letters to be delivered, orders to be bellowed, the excuses were many; the real reason, however, was singular. What started one evening atop a sturdy desk repeated two to three times a week at his beck and call.

_Loghain has asked to see you, Ser._

It always meant the same thing and always brought the same sliver of a smile upon her lips. She wished to see him as well.

But never during these meetings did Loghain express his feelings in one direction or another for Cauthrien. There would be looks she would catch; thoughtful expressions tinged with the grey tint of pain or a brilliant light dancing crisp within the blue of his eyes. Always, these were but glimmers, phantom visions she could never be quite sure she saw or simply hoped she did see. Still, his call never went unheeded. What morsels of attention he offered her, she happily accepted. She was a woman that knew what she wanted and when presented with the opportunity to fill her cup to the brim, she did not hesitate to raise her glass and ask for more.

In his arms she felt safe and powerful. This was the Hero of the River Dane and he showed interest in her, a small girl from a farm in the Bannorn. And though he may never have said what he felt for her, she found it really did not matter. She would happily be his convenience. His choosing her was enough for now.

But the summons did not arrive. She waited, sitting on the edge of her bed expectant of a knock that never came. Eventually, she gave up, changed into her cottom shift and pulled herself into bed. Sleep came slow but took its hold upon her, consciousness drifting in a pool of disappointment.

~**~

An uncomfortable feeling rattled Cauthrien from her slumber. Senses fired off the alarm. Another was in her room; the heavy pull of eyes upon her. She jolted awake, sitting upright quickly. Reflexively, she reached beneath a pillow for the dagger she always kept hidden. But before she could retrieve the weapon, a hand wrapped about her wrist, stopping her quest.

He was sitting on her bed, a looming figure ensconced in shadow. _Loghain_. The adrenaline coursing rapid through her body ceased its flow. She relaxed under his firm grasp; fingers abandoned their search. He had surprised her. Never had she expected him to visit her let alone wake her in such a manner. Curiosity overtook her expression. A question of sorts beckoned from her lips, "Your Grace?"

His response was physical. His hands found new target in her face, cupping it in possessive draw as he pulled it towards his own in a voracious kiss. _There are worse ways to be woken up,_ she thought, her mouth responding eagerly to Loghain's.

The full weight of his body was pushed into hers as he leaned in; both bodies forced to lie upon the bed. Hands moved, their next target territory previously claimed – her wrists. No resistance given, all too eager to comply, Cauthrien allowed both hands to be caught in grabby grasp of a single hand and raised above her head, pinned.

His mouth tore from hers, teeth scraping against tender flesh in retreat. Desperation pushed Cauthrien's head up seeking to continue the feasting. She struggled against the bonds of his clutch, unsuccessful. Glacial blue stared down at her. No comments uttered. No smiles formed.

The tear of fabric cut through the air, Cauthrien's under clothes dispatched by Loghain's free hand. She could feel his hand move against his own clothing, pants undone just enough. Her legs nudged apart. His intentions were quite obvious. Her cooperation was given willingly.

Loghain had never been one for tenderness in the past. This time was no different. Rough and determined, he laid his claim. Slow and deliberate moves changed quickly into a frenzy of thrusts, pushing her hips into the mattress with such force she felt as though she would rip though.

She tried to be silent, to muffle her cries. She turned her head, seeking to dampen the keening in the crook of an arm. She felt Loghain's hand rake coarsely from her side to her face, turning her to look to him once again. "Look at me," he rasped hoarsely. No, there was to be no hiding away.

Her teeth bit at her lower lip, a last ditch effort to silence herself. A whimper of a moan bellowed behind her bruised mouth. And just as she thought she could not take it one moment longer, that the gates would burst in ragged scream, Loghain's own cry burst forth, his body tensed, his assault ceased. A shudder passed, his hold upon her wrists tightening then weakening. He collapsed, slick with sweat, heavy with breath.

Pain radiated from her wrists and arms as she moved them to embrace Loghain. She would be marked from his attentions. She knew this. But the thought of those marks, his marks, upon her skin brought a small smile upon the contours of her tooth raked lips.

Moments passed as they lay there silently. There were so many things Cauthrien would have loved to say. Nerves and a desire to make the moment last as long as possible kept her quiet. Instead, she soaked in the comfort and heat of his closeness – another scrap thrown and swallowed down ravenously.

Stillness found interruption, "I should go," he murmured, disengaging himself from Cauthrien. "I….I should not have come here."

The coolness of the room tickled at Cauthrien's exposed skin in bristle as Loghain moved away and edged to sit on the end of the bed. Her brows knitted, confused. Jelly-like limbs pushed slowly into the bed, lifting her shakily into a seated position at his side. Muscles had already begun to ache. Fingers trembled in extension; a hand pressed light into Loghain's back. "Stay." She had never asked him for anything; never once had she conveyed to him how she felt. But for some reason, in this moment, the invitation drifted easy from her lips. Too long it had been restrained.

The gentle nature of her touch brought tension momentarily to Loghain's posture. "I have done you wrong, Cauthrien. I have been inappropriate." He turned at the waist, shifting just enough so that their eyes might meet in somber gaze. The caress that sought her cheek was soft. "You very much remind me of someone…"

She leaned into his hand, craving the affection offered. "You have done nothing but right by me, my…" Another obstacle climbed over. "...Loghain." She had earned the right to call him by his name. "You have made me very happy. You should know that." Her hands took his in hers and brought it to upward. Lips brushed light against flesh in kiss and speech, "Please stay." She wanted to sleep with his warmth at her back and wake with his arms about her.

Impassively, Loghain stared down at her. She could usually tell what he might do. It was a skill she honed over time through careful study of his actions and responses to others. She could hope he would stay, but for once, she did not know what he would do. And when he spoke, her answer came. "I will stay." And her heart leaped – a battle won. "You must promise me one thing."

Without hesitation, her head fell in quick nod. "Anything." What was hers was his. He had but to ask.

"Never flirt with a Theirin again."


	6. It Gives

The days were spent in training and command. She learned, taught and grew as a soldier.

The evenings were spent in training and command. She learned, taught and grew as a woman.

What had started spontaneously evolved into something more substantive; on scraps no longer did Cauthrien sup. A relationship had blossomed -- for that was truly what it was, a relationship. On the evening of King Cailan's visit, a change took place. Footing became more even. Needs, though unspoken, became understood. She mattered and he stayed.

She kept her room. She kept her space officially. But every evening, she returned to his. A single knock would announce her presence. Welcome entry was given and expected.

The whispers in the halls had not gone unheard. Cauthrien knew the gossip. She did not care. Those that dared to make snide comments to her personally, that dared to ignore her status, learned what it meant to cross her.

She showed mercy to the first -- a small woman that saw fit to accuse Cauthrien of rising through the ranks on her back. The words had come in an alcohol rage tinged with bitterness and jealousy. A wanted promotion had not been received. She left the woman with all her limbs, fingers and toes. Only her pride received a bruising.

The second was Cauthrien's previous superior. He made the mistake of touching things he should not in ways he was not allowed.

_I understand you like…officers._

She left him with all his limbs, fingers and toes. His right ear proved a delicious dessert for one lucky mabari.

And the whispers came to an end. She heard no whispers as she left the dining hall. She heard no whispers as she walked the length of the corridor to his rooms.

She found Loghain sitting in a chair in front of the hearth. He did not turn as she entered nor he did not speak. She walked to him, stopping behind his chair. Fingers curled atop his shoulders and slid deliberately down his chest as she leaned into him.

"You are late," he noted, his eye's focus remaining upon the fire.

She brushed her right cheek against his left, letting the feel of stubble scrape against her skin. "Ser Fredric had an ear for gossip. I had to help him get over that," Cauthrien murmured. Loghain's fingertips traced the rise and fall of her hands as they entwined at his waist. Contentment rode languid over her, drawing a small sigh from her mouth.

"I have something for you," he noted, unmoving from his seat.

Gone was the girl that waited on Loghain to make the first move, any move. With time, a confidence has grown inside her. A thumb glided up slightly to hook against the upper portion of his pants. "I have something for you too, your Grace."

She felt his breath hitch beneath the tease of her touch. Otherwise he did not stir. "On my desk, there is something for you."

Her chin dipped forward, a defeatist pose. Fingers stilled their dive. There was something on the desk for her and it was quite obvious, he would have her go see it sooner rather than later. She reversed the course of her hands, sliding up his chest and slowly over his shoulders before releasing her clutch upon him.

She walked to the fixture, a small smile overtaking her mouth. Resting atop the desk was rather long and large object covered in fabric. Not many things came in such sizes and Cauthrien had little trouble guessing what might be beneath the folds of velvet. As she pushed away the material, the high shine finish of well polished metal came into view.

Her breath held as fingers roved in tentative exploration of the swirling design of the hilt – delicate swoops of carefully spun silverite weaved in intricate design to form an interlacing circular pattern. Marked upon the hilt, the name of its maker was emblazoned, Vercenne of Halamshiral. She knew the name instantly. This sword had been made by the finest smith in the Orlesian empire. The blade was as long as she was tall and its edges as sharp as any she had seen. It was by far the most beautiful thing her eyes had ever laid upon. And he intended this…for her?

"It's….," she began, eyes rising from her gift in search of Loghain. While she was opening her present, he had left his seat and moved quietly closer to her.

"…Orlesian." The word dripped disdainful from his lips. But as he continued, his tone took on its customary poignancy, "I took it from a rather arrogant Orlesian chevalier at the Battle of Avinash. He held it like a boy and fought much the same."

Cauthrien wrapped her hands about the base of the sword, lifting it from the desk. She had expected it to be heavy and weigh down her arms with its mass. But strangely, while it did have a definite weight, the sword was not nearly as burdensome as she thought it might be. _The Silverite,_ she had thought. "You wish me to have this?"

"No, I thought I might just show it to you and then tuck it away in a closet somewhere because I am such a tease." An eyebrow ticked up, Loghain's expression overtaken in the sardonic, though a small bit of humor seemed to touch at the corners of his mouth ever so slight. "Yes, it is for you. The smith called it the Summer Sword."

She felt like jumping up and down. No one had ever given her something like this before. She had received gifts from her family in the past, but they were always of the practical variety – a new pair of shoes, a new dress, or ribbon for her hair. And while a sword might be viewed as practical as well, this was no ordinary sword. The craftsmanship was exquisite and the significance of its origin was not lost to her.

_A trophy, he has given me a trophy._

She allowed the excited woman inside her to jump and dance while on the outside she remained calm and reserved; only the smile playing happy across her lips betrayed her pleasure. "Thank you, Loghain. I am…" _Yours completely, _she had thought. The emotions swallowed down in an instant, a more vague word spoken, "….honored."

The space between them narrowed as Loghain moved to stand next to her. He took the sword from her and set it back atop the desk. The familiar grasp of his hand reached for her, tugging the tie of her ponytail loose so that her hair fell to just below her chin. Fingers glided smooth between the locks so that he could cup her face within their clutch. "Good."

They fell into kiss, a well practiced routine founded in their mutual need of each other. His weaknesses she abused – the nape of his neck, the crook of an ear, the inside of a thigh. Her weaknesses he exploited – the tug of her hair just so, the roughness of his caress against bared skin, the slow and commanding rock of his body behind hers.

In the bed they fell, arms and legs entangled in sweaty embrace. To his heart she listened, her head against his chest. And she hoped, though he would never say it, and she would never ask, that she had claim to a portion of its beat.


	7. It Understands

The scent of rotting flesh collided with the unmistakable aroma of burnt meat, hair and blood. Everything about the creatures before her reeked of death, decay and destruction. Features carved in only nightmares marred their faces and bodies. Demons. Their kind had ravaged parts of Ferelden in the past, history had told. Not a true Blight, Loghain had insisted. But there upon the field of battle, surrounded by the twisted monsters she began to wonder if this was not a true Blight, what horrors awaited Ferelden during one?

Instinct and muscle memory controlled the swing of her sword. Horror and fear were tucked down into the pit of her stomach, to be worried about another time. The swing of her weapon, the dip and lunge of her body, all moved in tune to a well-practiced beat. Blood sprayed liberally about her, coating the ground in a sickening blanket of taint and corruption. She pushed through; she led the Shield as was her duty, as was her calling.

Defeat might come some day. The life of a soldier was touched with the promise of violent death. But on this day it would not come. On this day she would make him proud. She would defend this sliver of land bordering the Wilds.

~*~

The beacon had not been lit. The wait stretched for what seemed to be hours. Cauthrien paced. It was the only thing she could do to expel the nervous energy singing electric through her body. Into the arrow speckled sky she watched, waiting and waiting for flames to burst bright and beckoning atop the Tower of Ishal.

So she paced. Back and forth she walked lines, inspecting the troops ensuring they would be on the ready when the call came. But the Beacon was lit. Eventually it blazed in the skyline signaling for assistance and additional troops.

She looked to Loghain, awaiting the inevitable command for the troops to rush in support of the King.

No hesitation in his tone, his face cast in a serious guise, he gave his order, "Sound the retreat."

_Sound the…_

Had she heard him correctly? The retreat? Confusion set in, words rising fast and uncontrolled, "But… What about the King?" _What about all those men? Their families? The plan? _"Should we not –"

Metal collided with metal, his hand wrapping firm about her wrist. "Do as I command," he ordered. That look, she knew it well. A line had been crossed without much thought. Anger raged within crisp blue. He would have her give the command. It was a final warning. Do not question him.

His flaws had been known. No one would have dared call Loghain perfect. In Cauthrien's mind, he had been as close to an ideal as possible, though. Upon a pedestal she had placed him – her hero, her love, her savior. With a simple order, his tumble had been fast and merciless. An image in her mind became fractured and broken, cracks visible for the first time.

She did not understand why he would condemn the King, his best-friend's son, to the death that would result from their withdrawal. She did not agree it was necessary. She did not want to give the order. Soldiers do not think, they do she reminded herself. And the man clutching at her arm, Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, had spoken and she, ultimately, was but his servant, his second in command, the voice that would echo the slaughter of thousands of men and one King.

With a tug she released herself from his hold, only the harshness of her gaze betraying her indignation. Her back turned to Loghain, a path cut to the awaiting line. Her arm waved in circle before pointing in the direction of their retreat, "Pull out! All of you. Let's move."

_What have we done?_

_~*~_

The fields at Ostagar ran red with the blood and bodies of their comrades as they walked. It was a quiet retreat filled with imagined screams of death and betrayal. No one spoke – not Loghain, not Cauthrien, not the troops. Only the sound of coughs, shuffling feet and clanking armor resonated in the air. Words were not needed to convey the tension and guilt rising pungent, overpowering the postures and expressions of the retreaters.

They marched until the sun's descent marked the coming end of another day and soon the awkward silence found replacement in the sounds of camp life. Men spoke in low tones; tents were constructed and an evening's meal cooked. The hum of activity vibrated along the countryside. Still, an undercurrent of guilt, relief and anger strummed an unsteady rhythm through the army. Menial tasks were done out of habit and training, but the men's faces betrayed a deeper strife.

Cauthrien knew if she looked in the mirror, she would see that same mélange of confusion reflected in her expression. Emotions tugged in her many different directions. Relief washed over in a wave of guilt and self-loathing. Her death had not come and for that she was grateful. But at what cost? So many had perished and it had been her lips that condemned those men and women to the horrors of the darkspawn. They sought to defend their country. But where had their country been for them?

And she hated Loghain. She hated him for making her give the order, for effectively making her the murderer by proxy of thousands of Fereldans, and for making her become an accomplice in regicide. She hated him because deep down she still knew no matter what he did, no matter what he asked, she would follow him blindly and without hesitation. Question him, she might. But go against him? She did not see a future where that was possible. She hated him because she knew she still loved him and it made her hate herself.

Armor removed, composure called upon, she put on the best face of a Commander she could muster. Spine straight, face blank, gait filled with purpose, she exited her tent and started along the path to Loghain's. She had things to say, questions to ask. She had made the mistake earlier of seeming to question his judgment in front of others. She would not make that error again. In private, she would bring her queries. In private, she would make him talk and explain. Why Cailan? Why all those troops? Was he so sure that this was all a ploy by the Orlesians? Her doubts were many. Her determination filled to the brim. They were to have words.

With that purpose in mind, she pushed aside the flap of the tent and entered his quarters. Plans were discarded at the sight of Loghain. Posture slumped, demeanor cast in shattered stone, he sat at a small table in the middle of the tent, a glass of brandy within his grasp. Documents, maps, papers -- they were the focus of his attentions. Stoic and silent, to another he would appear unchanged – a man that was fazed by nothing, a golem in flesh.

But it was the little differences Cauthrien noticed; the minutia that caused her resolve to melt. He only drank when something upset him. The position of the maps and papers atop the table were not nearly as orderly as he preferred. His armor was strewn about the tent rather than stored in a neat pile adjacent to the entry way of the tent so that a squire might come and take it away for polishing.

An empty glass set next to Loghain's full one. He pushed against the glass, edging it along the table – an invitation. If ever there was a day to drink, it was this one. Cauthrien walked to the table and generously poured herself some brandy. She wanted to feel nothing, to be numb, to forget. The liquor would bring solace, a small bit of anesthesia to dull the awareness of what had come to pass.

"I made a promise to Maric once many years ago," Loghain began, slicing through the heavy silence of introspection permeating his tent. "I promised him I would never choose to save a single man over an entire army. I let many die to save Maric. He made me promise I would save the many over the one if given the choice again." His glass raised, contents emptied. "To no regrets, Cauthrien."

Cauthrien listened, absorbed, understood and poured him more of the brandy. There was an unspoken meaning behind the words. It was as near an explanation as she could expect to receive. To lead men meant to make difficult decisions and bear the consequences alone. His order had been made quickly but not without consideration or thought. She had jumped to conclusions and accusations. She came to understand how unfair she had been in her judgment. The lives saved far outnumbered those lost. A promise had been kept and the full weight of its result landed squarely on Loghain's shoulders. He did what must be done and made a decision lesser men had not the courage or mettle to make.

And though forgiveness was not something he would ever ask for or even desire, she forgave him for all those that would not. Her glass set aside, she circled behind him and placed her hands upon his shoulders. "To Denerim," she asked. They would speak of the day's events no further. What had needed to be said had been spoken. Her previous plans? Set aside and forgotten. She would stand at his side and offer him the support he deserved from her, both as a soldier and a woman. No regrets.

His voice grim, his lips wet with another draught of brandy, he stated flatly, "Yes, I need to speak to Anora."

* * *

**AN**: _Sorry this took so incredibly long to write. I was distracted by 'Duty Doesn't Come For Free' and promise to better. Honest! Thank you to Midnight Strike for the beta and to Lilith Morgana for being a wonderful help._


	8. It Rises

The ride back to Denerim and the Royal Palace was a long one. They persisted in an uncomfortable silence. There were things that should have been said, things that were on the tip of the tongues of the men and women that had been at Ostagar, but none of those things were voiced. The only words found laid blame at the feet of a secret order, the Grey Wardens. They had lit the beacon too late. They had convinced the King to enter battle to claim glory. They killed the King.

Cailan had been foolish, seeing the world through gold tinted lenses. He wished to match his father's legacy and to save the country from the grasps of a foreign invader. He had brought his Maric's sword with him. He had planned to slay a dragon, for Andraste's sake. Ferelden was to have two savior kings swathed in golden armor; until Cailan failed. On the fields of Ostagar he found his end. The history books would speak not of his victories but rather his defeats, and like his father he had died before his time and left Loghain behind to pick up the pieces.

Loghain's words had never been truer: _A boy playing at being King._

A somber greeting awaited the army as they rode through the city gates of Denerim. News had been sent ahead via messenger. Loghain would not have his daughter find out about her husband through rumor.

Black flags hung throughout the city, marking a period of mourning for their King. Wreaths and other signs of respect could be found throughout the city.

Loghain left Cauthrien outside of Anora's rooms. The conversation had within those walls was to be a private one. Father to daughter. General to Queen. And when he reappeared, weariness creased the corners of his eyes, a flash expression hinting at something deeper behind his usually impassive mask. Memories pulled upon, her recollection drew images of similar looks in the past. Hints of past pride.

"I will act as Regent until this time of war passes, Cauthrien," he informed her, the weight of the words apparent in the downward turn of his lips. She could imagine the fun the gossipmongers might have with Regent Loghain.

_He did this on purpose to rise to be King._

But she knew, this was a burden he did not wish to bear. He would do what must be done. It was his way.

.

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.

It was Cauthrien's first time in the Landsmeet chamber. Had it not been for her position as Commander of the Shield, she would not have been granted entry at all. The low drumming of a multitude of conversations echoed throughout the chamber and only grew silent at the appearance of Loghain and Anora. They stood together, side by side, atop an upper balcony within the room. Out of sight, her presence not necessary, Cauthrien stood adjacent to a doorway and took on the stance of a soldier.

Motes of dust lingered in the air making the large room feel almost as if it was suffocating. She was nervous for Loghain because she knew he would not allow himself the luxury of such an emotion. These vipers, these political animals tolerated Loghain, but she had heard the whispers only one beneath the notice of a noble could hear. She was nothing to these nobility but a statue standing off to the side. Loghain had risen in the ranks thanks to his friendship to a King, but these people had never accepted him as one of their own. If given the chance, she knew, they would be sure to let him know as much.

She listened as Loghain spoke of duty to the throne, securing the country's independence and the loyalty and fealty he would expect of the Ferelden nobles. His requests were reasonable. They would surely comply.

But one dissenting voice rang through the crowd. He spoke for the Bannorn – Bann Teagan. "The Bannorn will not bow to you simply because you demand it."

Loghain's response was quick as he a\roiled at the rebellious comment, "Understand this: I will brook no threat to this nation… from you or anyone!" He glanced toward Cauthrien and dipped his head in a simple nod. They were done and would leave. She pushed away from the wall and walked to his side.

And it did not surprise her that as they left the Landsmeet chamber, Loghain turned and gave her the order. "Take a unit of the Shield, Commander, and go to the Bannorn. I will not have civil war."

He had done what must be done. Now it would fall upon her to do the same.

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Work consumed Cauthrien. In command, she could lose herself. A straight course was set. A certain objective was to be achieved. She was to secure the Bannorn, to make the Regent's presence known. Organize troops, delegate responsibilities, it was her first real charge as Commander of the Shield.

No matter how much time Cauthrien spent in Denerim, there were certain things she never grew accustomed to: the smells of so many living in such closeness, the noise and the politics. Perhaps she was too simple in her pursuits and pleasures, but she never quite felt at home in the city. She had left the Bannorn at a young age. But still, whenever the concept of home drifted into her mind, ultimately, it was a sliver of farmland topped with a ramshackle house and wheat fields she thought of.

She was going home.

The warm welcome she expected, however, did not come. Bann Teagan's threats at the Landsmeet proved to have merit. Everywhere she and the troops went, they met some sort of rebellion, be it the aloof and inhospitable welcomes of the nobility as they reluctantly offered accommodations to Cauthrien and her men or the encounters with those that wished to openly rebel and incite civil war.

These were her people and it was their blood she shed on the land she had called home.

She could not wait to return to Denerim.

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The man leaving Loghain's chambers was exotic and elfin. There was a deliberate grace in his movements topped with an air of danger. _Assassin._ There was no mistaking the look. She supposed in a way, some might consider him handsome, a roguish air of confidence and sexuality about him. It all seemed too utterly rehearsed, a show put on to portray a specific image, provoke a certain response. The elf smiled up at her, an inviting curl to his lips and an undisguised roving of his eyes along the contours of her body. He dipped in a cordial bow, eyes remaining steadfast upon her while he bent at the waist. She was not interested in such bait and walked past the man.

Cauthrien knocked on the door. Two months since she had last heard his voice. It penetrated through the door, bidding her entry, "Come in." Cauthrien walked into Loghain's rooms half expecting to find him alone. Unfortunately, another man lingered, hovering close to the Teyrn.

There was something about that man, Rendon Howe, she did not trust. The purposeful curve of his lips in well-practiced smile, the overly agreeable nature of his tone that hinted at an underlying layer of condescending intent, and the spark that entered his eyes whenever Loghain was not looking as if he was enjoying the punch line of a joke only he was privy to, all conspired to make Cauthrien suspicious of the man.

He was a politician and in her experience that sort treaded in waters often muddied with self-serving purposes. They did not care what was good for the country; rather, all that mattered was what was good for them and their own personal advancement. This particular political viper appeared to have latched his hungered bite of ambition upon Loghain.

Her head dipped in an overly cordial nod at the man. "Arl Howe."

"It is Teyrn now," he corrected, an all too smug grin sliding slippery across the thin line of his mouth.

Teyrn? Much appeared to have happened while she was gone. Another drop of the head, "Teyrn Howe." New titles, assassins, the questions piled in her mind. Cauthrien walked toward the seated Loghain.

_Drinking…._

The pewter cup was clutched firmly in his grasp. "I believe we are done, Rendon."Loghain voiced his dismissal.

"My liege." The man bowed to Loghain, the gesture over-exaggerated and more for Cauthrien's benefit than Loghain. And he was gone, leaving the pair alone for the first time in months.

She wanted to not think, to let the horizon of knowing fade into black in the comfort of diversion. An ominous feeling ate at her gut. Fact upon fact piled up to create a mound of foreboding – civil war, associations with Rendon Howe, whispers of Fereldans sold into slavery. Each day it seemed as if little pieces of the man she had known all those years had begun to shear away and she was helpless to stop it. Denial tasted so much sweeter, engulfing the bitterness upon her tongue in a layer of purposeful avoidance.

So much appeared to have changed in her absence. Had other things? Had he grown to not… A careful reach, her hand found the nape of his neck in gentle touch. "Teyrn?" His head tilted back moving toward her fingers . Relief washed over her.

"Of Highever."

"And the Couslands?" Last she had heard, Bryce Cousland was still the Teyrn of Highever.

"Dead." No further explanations were provided and none were sought. She would let the subject drop for now, her interests pointing in other directions.

Her speech serious, formal airs cast aside with the departure of Howe. "I worry." A counter to her gravitas, hands moved, unbuckling the sides of his armor and took off his chest piece.

"Do not." Their words were few, but enough.

The nagging pain of doubt continued to nip, unwilling to release its hold upon her. "I do not trust him. He is a politician." Howe battled in fields less than honorable. Deception and lies, these were his weapons of choice. Cauthrien did not like or respect him at all. He tainted everything that he touched with a veneer of treachery.

Leg plates undone and boots removed, Loghain sat before her in only his underpadding. He rose, moving to stand in front of her. "A necessary means to an end and nothing more." There was a level of finality to his tone. The matter settled and sealed with his undoing the fasteners of her armor.


End file.
